


When the Night Was Full of Terrors

by cutflowersound



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood and Injury, Derek and Lydia save them, Derek and Lydia team up to help them, Fluff, Graphic Description of Injury, Hurt Jackson Whittemore, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Jackson Whittemore helps Stiles Stilinski, Kidnapped Jackson Whittemore, Kidnapped Stiles Stilinski, Kidnapping, Kinda, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Scars, Self-Conscious Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore Friendship, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Supportive Derek Hale, Supportive Lydia Martin, Torture, Trauma Recovery, be careful, burning as torture, derek helps stiles heal, not really - Freeform, very graphic guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27076537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutflowersound/pseuds/cutflowersound
Summary: Stiles and Jackson are kidnapped, tortured and rescued.In that order.Derek and Lydia help them to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore
Kudos: 238





	When the Night Was Full of Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I have no idea of when this takes places canonically, and I have no idea of who is the bad guy.
> 
> This was written in a blur, so if there’s details that aren’t exactly clear I am sorry.
> 
> Please let me know if there are tags that I need to add.
> 
> I apologize for any errors. English is not my fist language, so if you find any grammatical errors let me know and I’ll fix it immediately.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this.

The sound of blood dripping on the floor was deafening in the darkness, only interrupted by the wet, ragged breathing coming from Jackson, strapped to the chains hanging from the ceiling and trying to heal the wound on his chest. Stiles closed his eyes, trying to ignore how the small amount of light inside wherever they were reflected on Jackson's _lungs_ , and how Stiles could _see_ them expanding and contracting every time the werewolf breathed.

Maybe he shouldn't have tried to play hero. Maybe he should've stayed in the loft like Derek had told him to. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten Scott to go looking for half a body, to begin with.

God, his mind was full of maybes lately.

His heart jumped inside his chest when the rhythm in which Jackson had been breathing stopped. He allowed himself to wait a few seconds, feeling the dread building up in his chest.

"Jackson." He said, his voice cracking. He couldn't fill his lungs with enough air to speak; at least not hanging from his wrists as they were tied together over his head. "C'mon. You can't leave me here."

A wet cough left his companion's body. Stiles's sigh of relief was more like a sob. "I'm not leaving you, Stilinski. Not yet."

"You better not, Jackass."

"It hurts."

"I know."

Silence surrounded them once again. A drop of blood fell on his eyes as Stiles looked up to where his wrists where supporting his weight, stopping his feet from touching the ground. The light from the small lightbulb on the ceiling hurting his eyes.

"Do you think—"

"Jackson, shut up. You'll make it worse."

He only stopped talking as long as the next coughing fit lasted. Stiles tried not to cry when he saw the pink, foaming blood on the corner of the werewolf's mouth. He wished to the stars above for more time. They needed more time.

"Do you think they are coming for us?"

A sob wrecked Stiles's body.

He didn't answer.

—-

Stiles had no idea of how much time had passed. They could hear people moving upstairs, chairs dragging against wooden floor. Jackson's breathing was getting a little stronger, and the hole in his chest seemed a little smaller.

But maybe that was wishful thinking.

His face was caked with dry blood, his wrists sending a constant, white, hot pain to his nervous system. There were voices upstairs, and he recognized the voice belonging to the one who took him as he was getting his bat from the back of his Jeep, and who he heard once again when he was being dragged downstairs and hanged to the ceiling.

He couldn't see his face, though. The man had made sure of knocking him unconscious before removing the cloth bag from his head.

For the first time since he got there, he felt doubt. They were probably looking for them, Stiles knew it deep in his bones, just like the deep rooted knowledge that the sky was blue and that his father loved him.

He wished he was so certain about them being able to find them.

—-

The screams ripping his throat open were nothing compared to the pain cursing through his body. The smell of burning flesh made his nostrils burn, and a part of his brain was aware of his salty tears making the cuts on his face burn. That pain was nothing compared to the one he felt on his torso. He was dimly aware of Jackson screaming for them to stop, his wound healed enough to allow him to do so.

He didn't want to look. He saw enough of the red hot iron rod to know what was happening to his stomach and his back. He saw enough of the angry, cruel determination on their captor's eyes to know that he wasn't going to stop.

Stiles begged to whatever deity was out there to pass out. _Please_.

He didn't.

—-

His shirt was starting to stick to his wounded flesh. It was going to suck, taking it off. He shuddered from the thought, the movement making his shoulders ache.

He focused on Jackson's voice next to him. He had asked him to tell him a story, and he had complied. It was a testimony to how fucked they were.

Stiles had no idea of what the story was about, but the raspy, constant stream of words grounded him.

—-

Something was happening upstairs, the ceiling cracking over their heads and dust falling over their heads. Stiles blinked, his eyes burning from the particles; he forced himself to look up and to the side, where Jackson was hanging from the ceiling just like he was.

Jackson's teeth were stained with blood when he smirked at him.

"They are here."

—-

Everything hurt as Derek freed his arms. He surrounded Derek's neck with one of them, grasping the front of his shirt with his fist as he _breathed_. Their foreheads rested together, the air between them being shared for a few seconds. Derek's eyes were the most glorious sight he had ever seen.

"I'm here, Stiles. I'm here. You are okay."

He was dimly aware of Lydia freeing Jackson.

"Careful, his chest. It's not healed yet." Stiles whispered, his throat still raw from the screaming.

"Worry about yourself, Stilinski."

Stiles's laugh was interrupted by a sob. He closed his eyes, hands shaky as he tried to pull Derek closer, closer, _closer_.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't."

—-

His father allowed him to stay with Derek while he recovered. Jackson was there, too, and together they got better.

Physically.

Jackson's body recovered quickly by human standards; it took an eternity for a werewolf. His chest was scarred for a few days, and Stiles ignored how Jackson's eyes avoided the mirror every time they shared the bathroom.

At first he needed help for everything. His shoulders too sore from supporting his weight at such an unnatural angle. His torso covered on burns that stuck to his clothes if he didn't cover them properly. Derek had tried, at first. Tried to help him to clean them and cover them up, tried to support his weight on the shower when the hot water beat on the raw lines, making him feel like he was being burned once again.

But Stiles cowered away from him; away from his perfect, unmarred torso. The scars were a reminder, and he didn't want anyone looking at them.

Jackson ended up helping him, supporting his weight with his body as he struggled in the shower. It was different, he had been there, he had seen when the scars were made. And Stiles had seen Jackson's _lungs_ , for God's sake, they were over feeling self-conscious with each other.

—-

Sleep was hard to achieve. They woke each other up, screaming and crying. Jackson usually ended up reading something out loud when it happened, his voice soothing Stiles just like it had done when darkness surrounded them. Lydia and Derek started taking turns, keeping watch and shaking them awake the moment nightmares started plaguing their sleep.

They realized how hard it was for them; saw the bags under their eyes and the exhaustion weighing on their shoulders.

But they allowed themselves to be selfish.

Slowly, oh so slowly, they recovered. Their small group of four grew intertwined as trees in a forest.

The others showed up once in a while, but they mostly kept their distance.

They didn't understand, anyway.

—-

Derek drove him around at night, when the darkness drowned him and the echo of blood dripping on pavement flooded his senses.

The street lights made his profile sharp with their yellow shine, but Derek's gaze was soft. _So incredibly soft._

Their hands gripped each other over the console, as if they were a life line. Maybe Stiles would've felt self conscious about it, uncomfortable at the thought of causing pain to the werewolf with how strong his grip was, maybe he would've forced himself to let go.

But Derek was grasping his hand as hard as he was, like he was afraid Stiles would be taken away from him once again.

—-

He walked around the car, the corner of his mouth curling upwards slightly as he took in the relaxed outline of Derek's body on top of the hood of his Jeep. He climbed up there, resting his head on Derek's chest and grasping at his shirt with his hand. His muscles relaxed for the first time, his gaze traveling up up up to the starry sky; Derek's breath fanned against the crown of his head, and the warmth of his hand over his hip was felt through his clothes. It anchored him to the now, to the present, and took him away from the darkness in his mind where he found himself trapped sometimes.

A darkness interrupted by dripping blood and the smell of burning flesh.

And when Derek's hand moved under his shirt, drawing circles against his bare skin, Stiles's gaze left the stars above them and focused on Derek's eyes, who was looking right back at him; eyes as shiny as the stars above.

And when Derek's finger dragged over his ragged, burned skin, he didn't feel like leaving his warmth embrace.


End file.
